


Queen of the Bay

by Snowy_Mountain



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6175873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowy_Mountain/pseuds/Snowy_Mountain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tiny pebble can fundamentally alter the world.  What if Taylor Hebert learned the truth about Sophia Hess earlier than in canon?  How would that affect Brockton Bay?  Would she still be a hero?  Or would it unleash something greater and more terrible than anyone ever expected?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0.0: Déjà Vu All Over Again

**Disclaimer:** If _Worm_ isn’t by Wildbow and not by me, I’ll be flayed by swarms of bees. Everything else belongs to me. BEEEEES!

 

* * *

  
**Queen of the Bay**

  
0.0:

  
_Déjà Vu All Over Again_

 

* * *

 

 **Brockton Bay**  
_**21 February 2011** _

  
The roof was her new sanctuary. No one really wanted to be out here with the winter chill still in the air. Between that and the creepy staircase to the top floor which was used as a combination storage/garbage dump, plus bypassing the security door to the ladder to another locked security door? There were far too many easier places to find some peace and quiet in Winslow. But not for Taylor Hebert. No, the roof was her new Fortress of Solitude away from the Trio.

  
So far, they hadn’t managed to figure out she was up here. For now. It wouldn’t last of course. But she would take her little temporary reprieve for however long it would last. It was also a great place for her to practice.

  
Taylor smiled as the horde, no … swarm of flies pirouetted in midair and took out in an arrowhead v-wing formation. _It was getting easier and easier,_ she realized as she simultaneously had a stream of cockroaches marching single-file in a perfectly straight line. _And pivot!_ In a single movement of absolutely perfect coordination, the stream of roaches swiveled in lockstep and continued marching—this time in a broad line.

  
She tried not to giggle at her antics. It was amazing. To think, just a few days ago that she was completely overwhelmed with all of the sounds, lights, smells, and perceptions being filtered through the bugs in her range. But she had gotten used to it—like a droning buzz in the background. It was akin to suddenly realizing that you were blind for half of your life and donning glasses and seeing the world in perfect vision. Only for Taylor—it was a world of smells, sounds, minute vibrations, and other sensory perceptions that her swarm of insects were feeding to her.

  
Maybe … just maybe, she really could be a hero. Just like Alexandria. She smiled even wider at the thought. _That would be so cool,_ she reflected wondering just what would it be like to meet with the legendary heroine. _Guess I can’t ask her for an autograph … that wouldn’t be too cool for a fellow superhero right?_

  
_But it wouldn’t be easy. My range is definitely improving. Since last week, its increased about eight to ten feet which means that my range has practically doubled in about a month. I wonder if my range will simply continue to progress or if there is some sort of upper cap…_ Taylor mused to herself as she scribbled a few notes in her secret journal—no, her **HERO** Notebook, she corrected herself proudly.

  
_Right. And not only that I’m getting better at being able to discern just what kind of insects they were._ Idly, she made a quick identification of the five million, eight hundred thousand, seven hundred and eight insects within Winslow itself. That was a fly, that was a moth, a group of bees, and a lone butterfly … it was a bit amazing really just how many bugs there were lurking around. _This dump really needed an exterminator,_ she noted a sizeable infestation of roaches in the kitchens of the cafeteria and mentally reminded herself to never eat the food there, like **EVER**.

  
She tapped her pen on a section of blank paper thoughtfully. _The problem wasn’t linking to the bugs in my range—_ she did that practically automatically and identifying what kind of bugs that she linked to was becoming more and more instinctive. But what she was having a problem with was the extra sensory stuff. That was a bit difficult to filter through. Bugs just didn’t see like humans did, didn’t hear like humans did.

  
_That was what was screwing her up,_ she figured. She wasn’t used to seeing what a bug sees and hearing what a bug hears. Not to mention that ALL of that sensory data at once and trying to keep it cohesive.

  
_Right. I guess I should practice that a bit more,_ she mused and set down her pen and closed the notebook. With that stray thought in her brain, she closed her eyes and started to concentrate. Breath in. And out. Breath in. And out. Breath—and she practically screamed as a huge barrage of sensory data flooded into her and caused her brain to practically explode into agony.

  
_**“fairlyitselfBITCHfuckyouwithinternFRACTALSwordprocessIweatherWEDNESgametonightThursdayrememnext—”** _

  
She squeezed her eyes tighter and pinched the brow of her nose and tried to breath regularly. Slowly, her headache eased a bit. _Woooh. Right, take it a bit easy._

  
After a few minutes, it no longer felt like her brain was trying to burst out of her skull and was just a dull ache. _Oookay, first rule. Don’t have all of the bugs in my radius feed their senses to me all at once. That was just … too much. Too … too fast._

  
_Maybe…_ Taylor nodded mentally as a trickle of information began to flow into her.

  
_“canbeaithectarefreeKaisergress…”_

  
_There was a … mental pressure but it wasn’t painful like the last time. Yeah … nice and easy—_ as she likened it to slowly opening her eyes and letting it to adjust bit by bit to a bright light instead of simply trying to stare directly at the sun and being blinded instantly.

  
OK. Right. Narrow it down. Further.

  
_“merchanz bye de ewww we turkey club shit can her bleachers…”_

  
With her focus narrowed, she was ‘seeing’ and ‘hearing’ through the eyes of several nearby bugs, narrow it down further, narrow it down and…

  
_“—phia!”_

  
Taylor twitched, hyper-alert at the familiar voice reverberating the atmosphere. _**Emma!**_ She cursed mentally.

  
Suddenly, she was there. The images were blurry, the sound was hazy but it was almost as though she was standing 150 feet southwest from her position in a locker corridor with her former best friend and her chief thug.

  
“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses,” Sophia Hess growled as she snapped her cellphone closed. “Piggy was squealing at me over that last bunch of skinheads I popped. Excessive force, my ass!”

  
_Skinheads? Like Empire 88? But—but why would Sophia be apprehending E88—_ my mind blanked as the conversation continued.

  
“Let’s go before all of the food in the cafeteria is gone!” Emma whined.

  
“Just lemme stash my books in my locker,” Sophia protested.

  
“Hurry up!”

  
Sophia paused and then checked out the deserted corridor carefully. “Ehh. No sweat,” she said. Then her entire arm transsubstated into a dark mist and then she thrust the smokey appendage through the metal door of her locker, dumping some of her school books—my mind stuttered to a halt and my focus was lost even as my eyes flew open in shock.

  
_Sophia. Her arm … she turned her arm intangible. She … Sophia was a parahuman!_

  
Her mind was frantically whirling, bits and disjointed pieces coming together.

  
Taylor only knew of only one parahuman who could turn into a mass of black smoke. That parahuman was Shadow Stalker. Sophia is Shadow Stalker. Shadow Stalker is Sophia. That singular thought ran through her numb mind. Then her frozen brain finally leapt to the next horrifying realization.

  
_Shadow—Sophia is a Ward. She’s … she’s a Hero. A Hero!_

  
_A Hero did this to me!_

  
The blood was pounding in my ears—no, I could literally hear the reverberations of the insects around me responding. Chittering, skittering, all of them reacting to my agitation.

  
And then everything fell silent as the next chain of logic fell into place.

  
_They … they know. The school, the teachers … they know. They have to know. That’s—that’s why they don’t do anything. It’s not because of Emma’s Dad or because Madison is cute or even because Sophia is a big important track star … that’s why they ignore me. They’re protecting her. They’re … they’re protecting their precious Hero!_ Her mind spat. _And why not? What am I? I’m nothing! Just like Madison and Emma and Sophia say. I’m nothing! Worthless! Garbage!_

  
_I can’t … I can’t … what can I … they’re not … they’re not going to stop … they **WON’T** stop … the so-called Heroes won’t stop her … there’s … there’s nothing I can do … no one will do anything … what …_ hot tears sprung into her eyes, coursing down her cheeks as she stared down at her Hero Notebook. She clutched it spasmodically, feeling the urge to rip it apart in a fit of savage rage. _Useless! All of it! Her dreams of being a hero were spiraling down the drain because there was no way that she’d ever be a Hero like Sophia! She’d rather die! I’d rather be a **VILLAIN** than a Hero like her!_

  
She barely felt her nails digging into her palms as she clenched her hands into fists, didn’t even notice the blood oozing out and dripping as her towering rage stoked higher and higher as she started to hyper-ventilate.

  
_Maybe it would be better if she had died back then … nothing had changed … **GOD** , things were even worse than before! She KNEW that nothing would change because Sophia was a GODDAMN HERO and she was trapped … trapped just like back in the locker … just like … LIKE—!_

  
DESTINATION.

  
**TRAJECTORY.**

  
_**AGREEMENT.** _

 

* * *

  
_**TO BE CONTINUED…**_

 

* * *

 

  
**A/N:** Did I just Second Trigger Taylor? Why yes, yes I did. This is like a week or so after she comes back to Winslow from recuperating after the Locker and she inadvertently discovers that Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker.

  
Taylor is still regaining her emotional balance, high on the thought of being a Hero when she discovers that a Hero, a Ward had done this to her; she had a panic flashback to the Locker and BAM.

  
And so … the world undergoes a major shift thanks to Taylor inadvertently seeing a trivial use of Sophia’s power and makes the connection between her and Shadow Stalker.


	2. 1.1:	 Trent 1-A

* * *

  
**Queen of the Bay**

  
1.1:

  
_Trent 1-A_

* * *

  
**Brockton Bay**  
_**3 November 2016**_

  
It had not been easy to be black for the past few years in Brockton Bay. And that was even before the fucking Queen had taken over. Between the fucking racist Nazis on one side led by a Hitler wannabe, the fucking Asian kamikaze nutjobs led by a goddamn rage dragon on the other, and the fucking druggie scumbuckets led by even worse scumbuckets—Trent Halloway had somehow managed to navigate the ever treacherous and ever shifting shitscape of the Bay without getting himself lynched, beaten, and forcibly turned into a drug addict. Somehow.

  
Of course, not even he could escape the fucking capes. As luck would have it, Trent had fallen into the more saner groups. And considering that his employers cosplayed as video game characters—that was saying something.

  
As it was, Trent just told himself it was a job—true the hours were a bit odd and so were the uniforms; but Trent decided it wasn’t that much worse that the graveyard shift at some fast food joint. And on the whole, Uber and L33t actually treated him and the boys decent. The pay sometimes fluctuated erratically but they weren’t racist assholes, didn’t deal drugs, and weren’t the types to stick a bomb in your skull—which made them fucking saints compared the rest of the fucking capes in the Bay.

  
Things had improved somewhat. Lung was gone and the ABB had splintered up and the Nazi wannabes were a pale shadow of their former selves. The Merchies were still lurking under some convenient slime molds but weren’t quite as aggressive as they used to be ever since this new bunch of fuckers had risen to prominence and were now calling the shots in the Bay and were busy snapping up all of the warm bodies they could.

  
Not only was the pay a fuck ton better than Uber and L33t’s but the way that they were gobbling up land, there was a good chance you could find yourself running a sizeable territory, being not a henchman but well a lieutenant or maybe something more. Two of his long-time friends and fellow henchies, Nixon and Johnny J. had bailed and jumped onto the Warlords’ ship. Nix had already been promoted to some sort of manager post and had already offered Trent a cushy slot with a regular salary and free medical. Trent had said no.

  
Part of it was that he wasn’t interested in being a lieutenant or whatever crap. Another part was the fact that Uber and L33t had been good to him when the going was rough, they hadn’t bailed on him. Sure they were a bit goofy at times and loved their video gaming way too much, but they didn’t scare him as some of the other fucking capes did.

  
And they wouldn’t fucking kill you if some shit happened and the caper was blown. The worst that Uber and L33t had done was break Veeko’s legs and threw him out of the gang. And since Veek had been ripping off all of them by skimming, Trent wouldn’t say that he didn’t have it fucking coming.

  
Shit, Trent had heard one skinhead had tried ripping off Kaiser and Kaiser had the idiot crucified and got to watch as the friend who recommended him to the E88 and the poor fucker’s family members got slowly flayed alive before Kaiser got around to finally ritually disemboweling the guy. Trent usually didn’t have much pity for Nazis, but that was some seriously twisted crap. And that was nothing compared to what Marquis used to do according to some of stories told by the old timers.

  
About the only good thing about the fact that Nix and Johnny J. leaving was that it left more for the rest for Trent and the others to split. But even that well was drying up and Uber and L33t were running out work and cash with the Warlords in charge of the Bay now.

  
_But this?_ Trent couldn’t believe that they were fucking running security. Maybe instead of criminal henchmen, he should go apply to be a night watchman or some shit. He hefted the laser rifle and tried not to stare at the duct tape holding the piece of shit plastic housing together. L33t had sworn that it wouldn’t blow up on him, but still … this was L33t. He quietly prayed he wouldn’t have to actually use the fucking deathray … and that it wouldn’t do anything like irradiate his nuts and make him fucking sterile like Manny.

  
He also didn’t like the fact that they were working for the Merchies. More like he fucking hated it. Trent loathed druggies. His mother became a fucking cokehead and he had seen first hand just what the fucking drugs did to her as a kid. Days when she didn’t even know who the fuck he was, days when she was shrieking and clawing at her skin ‘cause she was withdrawing, weeks where she fucking vanished, finding their stuff missing because she had to sell it to get her next fix, or finding out she was selling herself for another hit. They hadn’t heard from her for over a year before his old man finally got a call from the fucking coroner that she had finally killed herself by OD’ing. Neither he nor Trent could even ID the corpse as the cops hadn’t found her decaying body until a month after she had croaked.

  
Trent had a number of vices. He liked greasy food, played poker a little too much, lost a bundle on the ponies, stolen goods, aided and abetted, and even visited a few ladies of affordable affections. But one vice he lacked was doing drugs. Hell, he didn’t even smoke or drink heavily.

  
Any desire to experiment or indulge had been pretty much sapped out of him thanks to dear ol’ Mom. So in some fucked up way, she did something right.

  
To alleviate his annoyance and boredom, he strode down the dock, his eyes tracking back and forth over the brackish black waters of the Bay as he gingerly carried L33t’s weapon as far as he could from his body. It was fucking awkward but he vowed to use the thing only as a weapon of last resort. His headset crackled with static and Uber’s voice came on. ** _“Heads up people. Cap’n Crab’s here.”_**

 

* * *

 

Trent heard a bunch of acknowledgments even as he saw out in the black waters of the Bay, something bubbling and frothing before a huge spike erupted from the water. Followed by other spiny protrusions as the gigantic _**thing**_ sluiced up from under the water. It was some unholy amalgamation between a lobster and a submarine which meant some fucking weird cape shit; Trent felt his skin crawling as it trundled forward through the water, settling up against the dock. He tightened his grip on his now comforting laser rifle as a section of hull peeled off, revealing some sort of fleshy inside with pulsing veins even as a gangplank extended itself.

  
Up until that point, the strange watercraft had been the weirdest thing around. Then _**he**_ came looming out of the insides.

  
Trent had seen a lot of weird shit but he had to admit that Cap’n Crab ranked right up there. It wasn’t his name—Uber had warned all of them against calling the man-crustacean thing that—but it sure did fucking fit him. _Lord, he looked like the fucking love child between a crab and a brick wall._

  
Nearly seven feet tall, he was tatted up as a fucking pirate complete with a hat tilted a jaunty angle although instead of a hook for a replacement left hand—he had a giant claw. A real crab’s claw. That wasn’t even counting the dull red scaly carapace that was visible instead of plain skin and a pair of eyestalks that wiggled independently of one another, and a set of mandibles instead of lips. Barbs and spiny protrusions studded his face in a bizarre mockery of human hair. He was built too. Well, Trent wasn’t sure if it was muscles or armored shell or what—but the closest thing he had ever seen to Cap’n Crab was one of those Wards, Browbeat who made bodybuilders look wimpy with his bizarre, grossly over muscled body that looked like the kid had been overusing steroids.

  
He shambled forward, his eyestalks rotated around and his mandibles clicked open and shut.

  
“Uber. L33t,” he growled in a profound accented bass at Trent’s rapidly approaching bosses. He idly wondered if the accent was a result of Crab’s country of origin or if the weird-ass transformation into this humanoid crustacean had altered his vocal cords.

  
“Where are de Merchants?” the giant crab-thing demanded, his left claw flexing open and closed clearly angered.

  
“Ah, Commodore Jones!” Uber said cheerfully and tried diplomacy, “A minor delay—”

  
“Those fuckin’ dopeheads are wasted aren’t dey!” the self-titled Commodore Davy Jones roared, spittle flying from his mandibles and he slammed his clawed hand on a piece of piling that instantly splintered into pulp.

  
“I’m sure that it was some sort unavoidable—” Uber tried to soothe.

  
“BULLSHIT!” Jones bellowed.

  
Trent had to admit that he was probably right. Junkies tended to have a fairly elastic sense of time. He tuned back to the conversation which had continued without him.

  
“—wastin’ me bloody time!” Jones continued to rant. “I’m not going to hang out in dis miserable pissant of a town for the likes of Skidmark and his whores to come outta of their druggie coma! Should dump his fuckin’ cargo into the Bay!”

  
Jones continued to shout and curse while Uber did his level best to soothe the grouchy crustacean. It was a little over half an hour later before the Merchants finally came chugging up in their monster truck hauling a gigantic enclosed trailer with a gigantic crane attached to it as an afterthought. Fortunately it was before Davy Jones could make good on his threat to reenact the Boston Tea Party with whatever vile concoctions with the Merchies had shipped in and turn the surviving sealife of the Bay into drug addicts.

  
Jones broke off cursing out Uber with a growl, refocusing his ire on the tardy Merchants.

  
Uber sagged in relief. “So not getting paid enough for this shit,” Trent heard him mutter.

  
Skidmark and Mush came swaggering up. I winced as Mush passed my position by a good couple of feet and the overpowering stench hit me like a good shot to my nose. It was an effort not to gag as I tried to breathe through my mouth and will my nostrils to shut down rather than openly pinching my nose shut to ward off the stink. I could swear my nose hairs were shriveling up and dying.

  
Ironically, for all of his barely human body shape; Davy Jones actually smelled better than Skidmark and his posse who were not only human garbage—were about as fragrant too. It helped that Jones’ clothing was stain free, unripped, and probably he either changed or washed it on a regular basis; unlike the shining examples of ‘humanity’ that the Merchies represented.

  
It said something—and nothing too impressive that if Trent were given a choice between hanging out with Jones and the Merchies, Davy Jones would win hands—er, claws down every single time.

  
Skidmark beamed, “Admiral! What’s happenin’ my brother?” he barked out cheerfully boisterous.

  
“Yer late.” Davy Jones sneered, his claw flexing as he seemed to be giving Skidmark’s neck the beady eyeball. Trent got the impression that Jones was contemplating using his claw to pop off the head of the human excrement like a can of Mountain Dew.

  
“Hadda take a quick detour ‘round some cops your Admiralship. Didn’t want nuthin’ screwing up our meet ya’know,” Skidmark said with a leer and a wink. It sounded reasonable. Could even be the truth. Not that Trent really believed it.

  
Something that Jones shared as he made a dismissive grunt that sounded that he believed Skidmark as much as he believed pigs flew with little teeny tiny wings.

  
The gigantic lobster-marine unfolded its rear carapace, revealing stacks and stacks of cubes swathed in thick plastic held in it’s back cargo hold.

“Hurry up and unload yer damn cargo. I’m runnin’ behind schedule,” Jones snapped as he pulled out something like a pocketwatch attached to a chain, snapping it open to study it. Whatever it was displaying however was not a bunch of numbers, but rather some sort of tidal chart if Trent was any judge.

  
Skids shrugged and began yelling for his crew to begin offloading his precious drugs. For a bunch of strung out addicts, Trent had to admit that they were fairly quick as they used a combination of the crane and human labor. Not that efficient though, he had seen the Dockworkers Union working a couple of times—and the cursing crane operator was obviously a novice with it’s constant fits of starts and stops and jerking; but the Merchants threw a lot of manpower at the job by forming a human chain gang to ferry off their cargo. _Probably because they would be getting a free sample,_ Trent thought sourly.

  
Trent winced a bit as Davy Jones strode up and took a position practically next to him, clearly bored and idly watching the Merchant scum offload the cargo from his ship. He eyed Jones out of the corner of his eye as the half-crab man played with his tidal pocketwatch, snapping it open and closed like a nervous tick. Every now and then, he would examine the changing icons and shake his head in disgust. “Fuckin’ late crackheads. Shoulda charged ‘em more,” he muttered, tapping the glass face of the watch with the tip of his claw.

  
It was nearly an hour later and Trent estimated that they were about 80 percent finished when he heard static pop on his earpiece. **_“SHIT! Cape incoming!”_**

 

* * *

 

Trent stiffened, feeling his hands tightening around his laser rifle as he heard a high-pitched drone that seemed to vibrate into his very bones. Jones reacted at the same time, his non-claw hand pulling out some sort of bizarre pistol that looked half-flintlock and half-clam. “Whut’s that!” he snarled, glaring at Trent suspiciously and clearly suspecting him of some sort of double-cross.

  
Since Davy Jones was close enough to reach out and squeeze (literally) some answers out of him, Trent hastily shifted his rifle so it’s barrel wasn’t aimed anywhere near Jones and hastily reported, “Inbound cape!”

  
He struggled to parse through the sudden chaos of voices over the comm channel. The thrumming sound increasing in pitch and intensity and he heard others beginning to panic over the comms and the Merchants were dawning to the audible threat as well, starting to run around in fear and confusion. The sound was rather familiar to Brockton natives and not a good one to hear.

  
_The Queen,_ his mind gibbered in stark terror. _Not the Queen. Please not the First and Fiercest of the Warlords. Not the most terrifying of them all. Oh God, not her! Anyone BUT her!_

 

* * *

  
_**TO BE CONTINUED…**_

* * *

  
**A/N:** Trent Halloway and Davy Jones are completely OC characters by the way. I admit that I got a bit of inspiration for the good Commodore from Bill Nighy and his performance of the legendary sea pirate in _Pirates of the Caribbean_ franchise.


	3. 1.2:	 Trent 1-B

* * *

  
**Queen of the Bay**

  
1.2:

  
_Trent 1-B_

* * *

  
For a heart stopping second, Trent was sure that he was going to die. And not in a good way. He was going to be bug food. Literally devoured alive by the fucking Swarms of the fucking Queen of the Bay. She had done it before. _Not like this! Oh God, not like this—!_

  
Then L33t’s voice broke in over the voices. **_“Hero incoming! I say again, hero incoming! It’s Bumblebee!”_**

 

* * *

 

Trent felt like weeping as he sagged in relief. He knew of the B-Ranked Heroine by reputation. Beebee as she was usually referred to; was a freelance unaffiliated vigilante tinker who had popped up on the West Coast around two, two and a half years back.

  
She had quickly become known for her tendency to move around from city to city but in recent months had settled down in New Hampshire and occasionally popping up in the Bay. Not a good idea in his opinion. The Queen was well known for being prickly at times. And a do-gooder cape on ‘her’ turf who happened to share ‘her’ insect-theme?

  
Yeah. That could _**not**_ end well. Everyone was betting that they’d find Bumblebee’s corpse one day—probably half-cannibalized by the fucking Swarms. _She shoulda stayed on the West Coast,_ he thought with a wince knowing that the biggest bug bitch of them all would make real short work of a mere B-Lister. One day.

  
But what was important right now was that Beebee was one of those capes who went for disabling criminals in a non-permanent and non-fatal manner like Legend. _Awesome,_ he thought cheerfully. Jail was always better than the morgue or permanently crippled—something that occasionally occurred with hardasses like Alexandria and that psycho Glory.

  
The droning buzz changed in pitch and tone as Beebee came swooping down and he suddenly remembered her other nickname on the PHO boards as BubbleBod.

  
Seeing her in person made him realize just why she had gotten the handle … and why it stuck. She was taller than even him with shapely legs that went all the way up to a set of wide hips and well padded rear. Trent was not a butt man but he had to admit that she had one with just enough padding. With the stiletto heels, she had to be well over 6 feet and at least a 38-DD bustline. She was seriously fit too with a set of cut abs visible even through the armored suit. Over the droning sound of the frantically fluttering backpack mounted wings, she announced loudly, “Citizen’s arrest! Lay down your arms and put your hands—YIKES!”

  
The last bit was the result of half a dozen weapons discharged at her from both Merchants and Trent’s fellow henchmen, forcing her to juke down and to the right. Unfortunately, it caused her to veer too close to Trent’s position … and Davy Jones.

  
Jones’ gun went off with a high-pitched whine and a fast moving bolt of—something went and struck one of her wings. With a cry of surprise, Beebee went down and hard, smashing several plastic wrapped cartons with a yelped, “Owie!”

  
With a savage war cry, Jones charged towards the downed heroine, his clawed hand rearing back for a finishing blow. He was less than a foot away when Beebee’s hand snapped out and the air seemed to shudder and the worst, most awful sound Trent had ever heard assaulted his eardrums. He could only imagine how it sounded to Jones who caught it point blank and went soaring backwards through the air, bowling over several gaping Merchants and Uber before slamming into several of the carton stacks.

  
“Yeah, that’s right!” Beebee slurred as she staggered to her feet. “Big bully! Shooting down innocent superheroines!”

  
“Fuck you bitch!” Mush barked, his trash armor wrapping around his fist and forming a large sledgehammer like protrusion that he waved menacingly at her.

  
“Not without buying me dinner first! And for you—showering a few hundred times wouldn’t hurt either!” Beebee retorted and her hands once more snapped out accompanied by the air distorting between her and Mush again.

Mush staggered but apparently was less affected to the sonic blast. Trent guessed it was a combination of Mush being a bit farther away than Jones—and the layers upon layers of heavy garbage wrapped around him, not only weighing him down but shielding him pretty effectively.

  
Beebee seemed to blink in surprise. “Oh that’s not good,” she muttered.

  
“Dinner’s cancelled cunt. But—” Mush trailed off, his eyes running up and down appreciatively her form and he licked his lips, “—after dinner plans is definitely on!” he called out, lumbering forward.

  
“Crap, crap, crap!” Beebee turned and took off, able to run surprisingly well for a woman in stiletto heels in Trent’s opinion. Her backpack unfolded open and a pair of nearly transparent wings peeled out from the storage space. With a droning buzz, they fluttered and then died like an old lawnmower engine failing to catch.

  
“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” she wailed, glancing over her shoulder at the sputtering wings. One of the wings was dangerously bent out of alignment—probably from Jones’ earlier shot.

  
She spun around and clapped her hands together, almost prayerfully. Mush chuckled and then his giggling died as there was a high-pitched rumbling whine building up. A long veteran of Uber and L33t’s fights against other capes, Trent did the sensible thing. He dove for cover and clapped his hands over his ears.

  
**SSSSSCCCCCCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!**

  
Despite the muffling, he could still hear the fucking sound reverberating in his skull. It seemed to last forever but then it finally faded away, allowing Trent to remove his hands and look around—finally spotting a naked and drooling potbellied man lying in a mass of cardboard, paper, wads of unidentifiable substances, and the like all strewn around him.

  
Trent hastily averted his eyes, not so much as to protect Mush’s ID but rather because if he wanted to look at naked bodies—it most certainly would not be an ugly and overweight guy. There were people who desperately needed to be covered up as much as possible and Mush was one of them. Or at least some boxers to protect the world from being traumatized at the sight of Mush’s … junk.

  
Beebee was panting and straightened up and surveyed the dock, “Now then … before I was interrupted,” she cleared her throat and pointed a finger at the biggest cluster of Merchants, “Citizen’s … no, wait, I already said that—right! Weapons down and hands on your—”

  
There was a loud clank as part of the monster truck was rotating around and revealed a huge gaping maw of a very large barrel.

  
“—HOLY CRAP ON A CRACKER!” Beebee blurted out and dove to the side. Trent assumed the same pose, throwing himself as flat on the ground as he could. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

  
**BOOOOOOOM!**

  
The entire dock shuddered and a gigantic section just vaporized. _Friendly fire my ass,_ Trent thought darkly. Sure, he didn’t really expect the fucking cokeheads not to care if they waxed Trent or the rest of Uber  & L33t’s gang, but shit—he was fairly sure that at least three—maybe four of their own guys had been blown to smither-fucking-reens including maybe Mush. _Asshole druggies._

  
The formerly lying prone Beebee uncovered her head and blurted out, “Are you guys NUTS? You could seriously hurt somebody with that thing! Why do you even **_need_** a tank cannon?”

  
“BECAUSE OF MOTHER-FUCKING CUNTS LIKE YOU!” Skidmark roared. He banged the cab of the truck, “YOU MISSED BITCH! SHOOT AGAIN!”

  
“It’s reloading baby!”

  
“Hurry the fuck up! Goddamned slow-assed—”

  
Trent decided to ignore the byplay of Skidmark and Squealer’s on-going argument as he briefly considered throwing himself off the side of the dock and into the frigid water of the Bay. He wasn’t that crazy about the odds of him surviving the fall, hypothermia, and having to swim for shore, particularly since he never learned to swim—on the other hand, he was less than enthused about his odds of surviving a fucking tank round and the accuracy of a drugged out gunnery officer. Nix’s job offer was looking better all the fucking time. God, he hated capes.

  
Trent resisted sighing as he needed all of the breath he could spare as he belly crawled as fast as he could for some half-decent cover. He doubted it would actually stop anything—but anything had to be better than thin air.

  
It seemed that Beebee was of similar thought as she was crawling for some makeshift cover as well as they were both heading in the same direction. _Well,_ Trent made a mental shrug _—at least the view is definitely better._ Trent could see her shapely rear flexing through the sheer tightness of her leggings without any panty lines which indicated that Ms. Beebee either went commando or favored thongs.

  
Trent heard the turret gun clanking again, adjusting its aim in their direction. _Shit, they weren’t going to make it—_

**“ERRAAAGGGHHHH!”**

  
Davy Jones exploded out of the broken mass of cartons, flinging several boxes off of him. Several of them, impacting the big rig like missiles and one by chance, struck Skidmark and sent him tumbling off the truck with a pained cry. Apparently, his misfortune distracted Squealer’s aim because at the last second, the rotating gun barrel shifted a bit further than intended accompanied by Squealer’s squawk of “SKIDDY!”

  
**BOOOOOOOM!**

  
The shell went whizzing through the air just missing hitting the dock. Seconds later, there was a huge thoom and a massive plume of water geysering up like a fountain that drenched Trent. He spat out water and continued crawling, shivering in his now soaking clothes.

  
“I’M GONNA TEAR DEY BITCH’S RIBCAGE OUT ‘ND WEAR IT AS ME NEW HAT!” Jones roared, waving his gigantic claw around and staggering drunkenly as his eyestalks rotated around, each independently of one another as they searched for his target.

  
“Shithead!” Squealer shrieked. “He hurt Skiddy! Get ‘im!” she yelled, causing several of the Merchants to open fire on Jones, small arms fire plinking off his armored shell.

  
Trent wanted to shake his head but right now, nobody was shooting in his direction which was a big step up in his opinion. On further reflection, Trent got the feeling that Jones wasn’t even aware that he was being fired on at first. It wasn’t until one of them tried a shotgun at near point blank range that Davy Jones finally reacted. The gigantic crustacean didn’t even flinch from the booming roar of the gun, although he seemed to sway a bit from the double-ought buckshot. As near as Trent could tell, getting struck by both barrels didn’t even pierce his built-in body armor. But it did succeed in attracting the dazed smuggler’s attention.

  
He slowly turned and seemed to glare at the offender for a second. The wannabe assaulter with the shotgun actually took a step back, looking at the shotgun and clearly wishing for something bigger.

  
_Dumbass._ He should have backed up further because then Jones _moved._

 

* * *

 

Something that big and that large should **_not_** be able to move that fast in Trent’s opinion. But capes tended to ignore fucking shit like that because in an eyeblink, Jones had lunged forward and grabbed the shotgun with his pincher. In one deft move, yanked it out of the hands of the Merchant and simultaneously crushed it. His other hand came out and grabbed a fistful of shirt and hauled the Merchant up so that they were eye-to-eye—well, eye-to-eyestalk anyways.

  
“DID YEW JUST SHOOT ME?!” Jones bellowed, shaking him.

  
Trent spared the opportunity to get to his feet and haul ass. There was a concrete piling that he banged into and slumped behind as a make-shift barrier. Trent kissed it in relief. Better than nothing.

  
He quickly took stock of his person and gear. Small cuts, bruises, bumps, and scrapes but all four limbs attached along with all of his fingers and toes. His laser gun was gone. No biggee, Trent pulled out a regular snub-nosed .38 from his jacket pocket and a handful of shells and started loading the weapon. Uber and L33t might rely on their tinker-techie crap but he preferred good ol’ fashioned shit that wasn’t likely to blow up in his face.

  
The real loss though was his radio. He wasn’t even getting static. He pulled the earplug out and examined it. It was in pieces with wires sticking out and barely attached to the speaker; Trent tried to close the case back together but it didn’t stay and simply fell apart in his hands again. Fuck. And since the total extent of his technical abilities was changing the batteries in the remote, Trent was effectively without any comms. He had no idea what was fucking going on. As near as he could tell, Uber had gone down which meant L33t was in charge … for what it was worth.

  
That probably explained why we were acting so disorganized. Well—the fucking Merchies probably didn’t help either. Trent trusted L33t. Well, to the extent that he wouldn’t deliberately fuck him and the boys over. And that he wouldn’t cheat us. But in a combat op?

  
He had a tendency to get distracted and confused. Which is why Uber tended to act as the coach and keep him focused. Without Uber? 60/40 chance, he would panic and the boys didn’t have Nix or me to function as the quarterback to keep them fucking grounded.

  
Trent finished loading the .38 and risked a quick peek around. Right now, he saw absolute anarchy. The band of Merchants plus Squealer were attacking Davy Jones. And Jones was defending himself. Mush and Skidmark were down. L33t and Uber were MIA, but the boys were all milling around—clearly confused and needed some sort of fucking guidance. Beebee had gone to ground somewhere which wasn’t good. If there was anyone who you did _**not**_ want to give fucking time to get organized; it was tinkers.

  
“STOP THIS SHIT YOU STUPID PIGFUCKERS!” someone roared.

Trent saw Skidmark staggering up, rubbing his chest.

“THESE MOTHERLESS BITCHES SHOT ME!” Jones roared.

“WELL, YOU FUCKING CLIPPED ME!” Skidmark bellowed and started coughing and then, “WHY THE FUCK ARE WE YELLING?!”

“SPEAK UP DAMMIT, I CUN BARELY ‘EAR YOU!” Jones screamed back.

Fucking capes. Trent sighed and leaned his head against the cool concrete post to try and stop his suddenly throbbing migraine. _These were the people the PRT were hoping to kill the Endbringers with?_ _Maybe I should spare myself and stick my .38 in my mouth and pull the fucking trigger…_

 

* * *

  
_**TO BE CONTINUED…** _

* * *

  
**A/N:** Bumblebee is another OC character in case you were wondering.


	4. 1.2-A Glory Interlude

* * *

  
**Queen of the Bay**

  
**_Glory Interlude_ **

**(1.2-A)**

* * *

  
She used to love flying on patrol. It harkened to the days of freedom, of bright hope and optimism. That real heroes were out there, making a difference. Standing for what was right and decent. And it was fun.

  
She still flew on patrol.

  
But it wasn’t like the old days.

  
It hadn’t been for a long time now.

  
It wasn’t about freedom or hope or making a difference anymore. It wasn’t about standing for law and order. And it sure as Hell wasn’t about it being fun anymore. When she flew now … it was out of obligation. Duty. Responsibility.

  
The world was a darker, crueler place than Vicky Dallon remembered. Sure, it hadn’t been rainbows and sunshine even before the Bug Bitch had taken over the Bay—but back then, it seemed there was hope.

  
The PRT had all but given up. The Protectorate ENE was down to four capes now with Beatbox moving to Washington last month. _Reinforcements? Replacements? Oh uh, yeah, sure. We’ll uh … we’ll get right on that._ Vicky snorted. _My ass they will._

  
The national teams kept promising that they would be reinforcing the locals really, **_really_** soon now—considering that they had been saying that for ten years now, Vicky wasn’t going to hold her breath on that score. The PRT should really have something like a dozen or more capes considering the ratio of villains in the Bay. But any local hero cape with a half-decent power that popped up was quickly poached and transferred out while the Bay got stuck with the dregs and rejects that nobody in their right minds wanted were dumped here.

  
Armsmaster might have been a douche with a giant stick up his ass and a whole lot of uncomplimentary things too—but one accusation that no one would ever stick him with was that he was a slacker.

  
Vicky never thought she’d miss Ol’ Halbeard but he had been a damn sight better than the current crop of freeloaders or incompetents transferred in. Like Flak—or Flake as she not-so-privately called him.

  
The PHO Boards claimed that Flake had been shuffled off more important or prestigious assignments; essentially exiled to a place of no importance because they had no time or tolerance for screw-ups like at the Simurgh Containment Zones and no one really cared of potential collateral damage here.

  
She could believe it.

  
Because while others might charmingly call it ‘friendly fire’, Vicky and anyone else who had gotten accidentally shelled by Flake’s bombardments had a _ **far**_ different opinion of them.

  
And friendly wasn’t anywhere **_close_** to what they were thinking.

  
About the only damn good thing about Flake was that anyone complaining about Vicky’s lengthy list of property damages had a new and far more deserving target. In a single afternoon, Flake had managed to exceed Vicky’s more spectacular rampages accrued over a period of several years.

  
And he was simply the latest in a long list of third-raters shuffled off here at the Bay. Or as it more popularly known these days— _Bugton Bay._

  
Vicky scowled and clenched her fist. She hated that name. Hated the fact that it was practically a defiant fuck you to the rest of the United States that the Bug Bitch ruled here. A gleeful taunt to the rest of the PRT and the Protectorate and the fucking world—Come at me bro, I’m not fucking worried.

  
Even the rest of her family had abandoned this broken city.

  
Her family had begged her to come with them to Chicago. The PRT had pleaded with her to join the Protectorate dozens of times. She had been tempted but once she did, she had a feeling that they would immediately find some excuse to transfer out of here. Guilt-trip the fact that she was her generation’s version of Alexandria and they desperately needed her raw power for some emergency situation, promising that it would only be temporary deal.

  
No. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t abandon the Bay. It had been her home. _It was her home, dammit!_

  
She glared out at the large dome-like structure that enclosed a sizeable portion of the Docks. The HQ to the Warlords of Brockton Bay, a dark fortress mirroring the PRT’s Rig, and home to the Queen. It wasn’t accidental that the design of the gigantic interlocking hexagonal honeycomb-like panels resulted in the Dome’s nickname as The Hive. Tall and thin spires studded the Hive with dark, dense clouds billowing out from them. A casual observer would dismiss them as being smoke or vapor. Vicky knew better.

  
The ‘clouds’ were so dense and so thick that they blotted out any light as they swirled and wheeled in midair.

  
They were insects. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Millions of them.

  
All moving in perfect coordination in one direction. One purpose. Via one implacable mind.

  
She cursed at the terrifying sight even as she reflexively shivered. Vicky had never been all that fond of the creepy crawlies even before the Queen had emerged. But her distaste had risen to all new heights after she had been flayed alive by one such Swarm years ago.

  
She held her position in midair even though some part of her hind brain was shrieking at her to flee as fast and as far as she could. _Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear,_ she reminded herself as she could feel her muscles tensing at the horrifying sight of the Swarm. _Remembering._

  
Years later and she could still _**feel**_ them crawling all over her body, in her nose, in her ears, biting, clawing, ripping, her skin feeling like it was on fire, like it was dipped in acid, like she was being electrocuted—the Swarm biting over and over and over—she closed her eyes and shuddered, remembering herself shrieking in agony. Resolutely, she turned away from the Swarm.

  
It helped that she was completely covered these days rather than her old skimpy outfit with the skirt. It was a shame though, she really missed that cute little skirt. Her current outfit was designed more for protection and to be bug-proof rather than for aesthetics; although she still retained a cape for some modest butt concealment. The new suit tended to ride up in the crotch and she had no real desire to give the pervs a free show. Getting the Award for the PHO’s Most Photogenic Rear a second time was not something she aspired to.

  
_Maybe if I ever manage to remove the fucking Queen Bitch from the Bay, I could start wearing it again, modified of course—_ **booooom!**

  
Vicky whirled in midair, instinctively orienting herself in the direction of the dull muffled thump. _Explosion,_ her mind catalogued reflexively. _Not close._

  
She saw the Swarms reacting, agitated at the sound. She smirked and arrowed her profile, forging her way through the atmosphere in the direction of the explosion. _See ya later Queenie,_ she mentally cat-called along with a healthy raspberry. She narrowed her eyes even as she tapped her helm, letting the tinker-tech sensors do their job, giving her a telescopic enhancement and thermal read-out. _Hmmm, no fires or obvious bright spots,_ she zoomed in searching.

  
**BOOOOOOM!**

  
Another explosion and she reoriented herself once more, fixating on the point of origin. _Oh crap, please don’t be another fucking Bakuda-wannabe,_ she prayed. _Hmmmm… the Downtown Harbor?_ Vicky grinned. Flashes of light and thermal blooms. Gunfire. She dove downward. _Hero Time…_

 

* * *

  
**_TO BE CONTINUED…_**

 

* * *

 

  
**A/N:** For those of you complaining of all of the OC’s, have a chapter featuring the future Glory Girl or Glory as she’s renamed herself. And yes, Taylor will be making an appearance soon. The first couple of chapters was more for setup, to see what alterations that Taylor has wrought in this Alternate Future of Brockton Bay.

  
She’s not Skitter. Not even close. She is in effect, the Queen of Brockton Bay. She’s an omnipresent presence over the whole city. She might not be seen, but the mere fact of her reign affects everyone. There are still independent groups around—the E88, the Merchants, even the Protectorate but they’re not the real power of the Bay anymore and they know it. Taylor/the Queen is considered an S-Rank Threat with a Kill Order on her head but no one is willing to follow through on it akin to the Ash Beast or Moord Nag. She’s tolerated because she’s not a full on homicidal psychopath like Nilbog or the Slaughterhouse 9.


End file.
